The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the academy grounds, gliding the spires and courtyards with a warm amber glow. Yet, Aston didn't take the direct path back.

He walked slowly—silently—his beasts at his side.

The terrain wasn't harsh, but his thoughts were weighty. Instructor Tull's words still echoed in his mind like residual vibrations from a struck bell.

"Your beasts will hesitate if you do. Your formation breaks when you panic. So learn this now: discipline is not an accessory. It's your armor."

Aston had succeeded in the course. 'Efficient', the instructor had called him. Yet, there was no pride swelling in his chest, only calculation.

He didn't move like someone who had 'won' anything.

Mirage glided beside him. Gray, uncharacteristically quiet, padded along at his heel.

He thought back to the others—the girl who relied on her rabbit's speed, the turtle-user with a stable rhythm, even the reckless kid with the flying gull. Each of them made decisions that felt right in the moment.

But this wasn't a world where feelings guaranteed survival.

He remembered how Gray had tripped the panel, how Mirage had chirped the warning—and how close the margin was between avoiding and being tapped by the baton.

What if I had hesitated? What if Mirage hadn't seen it? What if it had been something lethal?

Instincts, yes. But Instructor Tull was right—-without training, instincts alone were a gamble.

Aston reached a bench by a modest garden of red-stalked willow grass, its leaves swaying in the breeze. He sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, chin resting on his thumb.

The other students had rushed. Most people always did. But was his caution truly better… or just more familiar?

He thought back further—to the alleys of Emberlight when he went home, to the nights he dodged patrols, when hesitation meant hunger or bruises.

Aston hadn't learned calm from peace. He had learned it from being cornered too many times.

Is this calm discipline… or just fear that finally learned how to keep quiet?

He let that thought sit in.

The shadows eventually grew longer. The bells of the Spire rang once—three chimes. Evening curfew wasn't far.

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Aston finally rose.

He returned to the student dormitory with quiet steps, nodding at a few passing silhouettes, ignoring most. His room was still the same—modest, tidy.

Ren's bed remained empty, the blanket neatly folded on the edge of the bed.

Still out? Training? Trouble? Or both?

Aston didn't bother guessing.

He removed his coat and hung it on the hook by his closet door. His beasts made themselves comfortable—Gray curled atop his blanket like a loaf of gray bread, and Mirage nestled near the window, eyes wide open.

He sat on the edge of his bed, running a towel along the edges of his jaw, then paused.

He remembered the baton patterns from earlier. The rhythms of blinking traps. The way Instructor Tull had walked with his arms folded behind his back like every mistake offended him.

And yet, there had been no cruelty in the instructor's teaching—just clarity. Brutal, but clear.

Aston leaned back, exhaling once through his nose.

He opened his pocket notebook and, by hand, wrote some words.

[Efficient is not enough. Efficient dies to the unexpected.]

Then, he looked up. The ceiling offered him no answers—just the familiar patterned grooves of polished stone and warm lighting that gently faded as the evening hours deepened.

While Instructor Tull's voice still rang clearest in his mind, other voices surfaced as well.

"But remember: we are the inheritors of both paths—fear and trust. Choose wisely which one you walk."

"Emotions are part of bonding. Don't cheat yourself."

"Bonds are built, not granted. But don't make the mistake of treating your beasts like tools."

He glanced toward Gray, who had curled up on the blanket, and Mirage, now nestled behind a drawn curtain, with eyes closed.

He hadn't chosen them lightly.

And yet…

Hadn't Gray chosen me before I even knew what I truly am? And Mirage… it had always obeyed every command without hesitation.

…

It?

His gaze lingered on the curtain.

Mirage had always obeyed. Silent. Instantly. Without even the smallest sign of resistance. Almost too perfectly.

Like a tool.

Aston's chest tightened.

That word—it echoed. Too close to what Professor Nyra had warned them against. And too close to the way he himself had been treated. Used, discarded, unseen unless useful.

"Bonds are built, not granted."

He exhaled slowly.

Had he ever truly built one?

He wanted to believe he had. But the truth was—he'd always kept a layer of distance. A reflex. A survival instinct. Growing up in that house, in that city, where warmth meant vulnerability and silence was safety, it had become second nature to harden himself. To never rely too much. To never feel too deeply.

That callousness hadn't gone away.

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